


Holding Tight

by wraith816



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hugs, Incest, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraith816/pseuds/wraith816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hugs Sam and it all goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Tight

**Author's Note:**

> For spnflashfic's hugging challenge. Thanks to switch842 for looking it over.

It happens on a Tuesday, sometime long after midnight but before the first flush of dawn creeps over the horizon. The cemetery is still around them now, a new calm that settled in as soon as one Gillian Thatcher's spirit was pacified with salt and flame. Sam's breathing hard from the exertion of digging up and refilling her grave, his skin and clothes are streaked with dark dirt and perspiration, and he's pretty sure that Dean stuck an earthworm in his hair at some point during the night. He wants at least eight hours of sleep, a hot shower, and to give his brother a good smack upside the head, though not necessarily in that order. Dean's in a similar condition, yawning and dirty and probably a little bit grumpy, so it's completely unexpected when Dean drops his shovel on the freshly moved earth and wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, and then the other around Sam's waist, pulling Sam closer into a full-bodied hug.

Sam barely has time to stiffen in surprise before Dean pulls away, picks his shovel back up, and walks off towards the car, all without a word. Sam stands over the filled grave, shocked to inaction by the fact that Dean, who avoids physical affection like he's allergic to it, just _hugged_ him, no provocation or explanation. It's like Sam's confusion has stuck him in that spot, unable to do anything other than watch Dean's retreating back, at least until Dean calls over his shoulder, "Haul ass, Sam, I wanna get back to the motel sometime this century." Sam shakes his head and follows, knowing better than to ask Dean about what just happened.

Later, awkwardly half-sitting on the motel dresser, Sam waits for his brother to finish with the shower and still puzzles over the hug. He can't quite count on one hand the number of times Dean's hugged him since Stanford, but it's a near thing. It's been almost an unspoken agreement between them: hugs are reserved for their highest and lowest points, for deaths and near-deaths and narrow aversions of the Apocalypse, not routine hunts that leave them marked only with dirt. That's never changed, even when they took their first fumbling steps towards something not so brotherly, even when Sam first put his hands on Dean with _intent_ , the no-hugs rule was still in place. What happened in the graveyard, it's an anomaly, something different coming from Dean, who is nothing if not set firmly in his ways, and Sam can't make sense of it.

When Dean finally comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a loosely-held towel, Sam's still no closer to figuring out Dean's behavior, especially when, instead of going straight for his duffel, Dean leaves a lingering pat on Sam's shoulder, wet palm making a damp patch on Sam's shirt, and says, "Shower's all yours."

The next morning, while Dean's out getting coffee, Sam calls Bobby first thing. "I think Dean's cursed, or under some kind of spell, or something."

"Jesus, Sam, slow down. Now what is this 'bout your brother?"

"He's acting strange; he keeps _touching_ me. Do you know of any spell that has to do with touching, or demonstrating affection, or anything like that?"

"Touching? I don't know, that doesn't sound like something..."

"He _hugged_ me. He never hugs me and something's gotta be wrong."

"All right, I'll look into it, but I think you're blowing this out of proportion."

"Trust me, I'm not. Thanks, Bobby."

They spend the day on the road, mostly, driving vaguely towards a possible poltergeist in Harrisburg that's probably just an overly jumpy homeowner, but worth the check just in case. Dean touches Sam twelve times over the course of the day. By the time they've got a room for the night and have settled in their bed - one bed now, thanks to this thing between them - every move Dean makes, each time they so much as brush against each other seems weighted with some new significance, a new worry. Dean's out immediately, laid out on his stomach, but Sam is too tense to fall asleep so quickly, on alert for the next manifestation of whatever supernatural force Dean's got latched on to him. He doesn't have to wait long; Dean's been sleeping for barely minutes when he reaches an arm out in Sam's direction, his palm landing right in the middle of Sam's bare chest, calloused fingers resting against Sam's skin. It's not unusual for Dean to move weirdly in his sleep - Sam's used to waking up to find Dean's elbow in his ear or Dean's foot dangerously close to his crotch - but this, this feels different: warm and _fond_. And as much as Sam enjoys the feel of it, this physical closeness isn't Dean, and he vows to correct whatever's been done to his brother.

On Thursday, Bobby calls back, telling Sam's voicemail, "I've dug up diddlysquat. No such thing as a spell or curse matching what you told me to look for. I'm sure Dean's perfectly fine, so calm down already."

Sam kind of deflates at that; he'd been so ready to charge into action and cast whatever counter-spell or ritual needed to get Dean back to normal, and now that there is none, Sam's not sure where to go next. Because no matter what Bobby might say, something has to be wrong with Dean because hugging is so completely far from their normal. Something has to be wrong with Dean; hugs are for when someone _dies_...

It hits Sam then: hugs are for deaths. And Dean, stupid, stubborn Dean is the kind of guy who calls gaping wounds 'just scratches,' and who had never even planned on telling Sam that he'd sold his soul and had a year to live. He's the kind of guy who wouldn't tell Sam if he were seriously ill.

Sam spends the next few days really looking at his brother, trying to decide if Dean's any paler than normal, if the grimace on his face is disgust over bad diner food or the consequence of some unseen pain. He recalls those long, bleak months without Dean, how even with Ruby's manipulations, all he wanted was to lay down and die. He thinks about heart conditions and brain tumors and all the small ways the human body is so fragile. Sam goes over the past few weeks in his head, wondering when Dean might have had time to slip away for a clandestine diagnosis. He digs through Dean's bag, looking for little orange prescription bottles, but finds nothing than their usual stash of emergency painkillers. Finally, faced with the realization that he has no clue what he's looking for, Sam decides its time for a professional opinion.

"Tell me again why the hell we're here," Dean gripes, looking disdainfully at the pile of magazines the doctor's office has provided for the waiting room.

"We haven't had a real physical in years and we kind of need to keep in working order, you know."

"When'd you get so paranoid?"

"Not paranoid, just cautious."

"Mister Ulrich?" the receptionist calls. "Doctor Guilford will see you now."

There's an awkward moment or so when Sam demands to follow Dean into the exam room, but Dean caves eventually, and the doctor looks over Dean from top to bottom, twice at Sam's insistence. He pronounces Dean to be in better health than any other guy his age before sending them both on their way. Dean isn't dying, at least not anytime soon. It should be a relief, knowing that Dean is more than fine, but Sam's no closer to an explanation than he was that night in the graveyard.

Dean's still complaining about having to see the doctor while they have dinner, ranting about needles and gesturing wildly with a slice of delivery pizza in his hand, when Sam snaps. "Why'd you hug me?"

"Wha?" Dean asks, mouth stuffed with food.

"Two weeks ago, in that cemetery, you _hugged me_."

"Sam-"

"No, Dean, don't try to brush it off. You hugged me, which you _never_ do, and first I thought you were under some kind of spell, but Bobby said I was an idiot, and then I thought you might be _dying_ , but the doctor said you're healthy, and now I have no idea what to think, so just tell me why you hugged me."

Dean chucks his pizza crust into the greasy box and rubs his other hand over the back of his neck. He mumbles, "I just wanted a hug."

Sam can feel his jaw literally drop. "What?"

"I wanted a hug, okay? Jesus Christ, Sam. I'm not cursed and I'm not dying."

"Then what was all the touching about? You kept touching me."

"I touch you all the time and you never notice! Not my fault you got all paranoid about it this time. I wanted a freakin' hug, so I hugged you. That's it. Now can we please end this conversation?" Sam nods, still a little dumbstruck as Dean gets up and stalks towards the bathroom. He pauses in the doorway, looks back at Sam, and says, "You breathe a word of this ever again and I swear to god I will kill you. Slowly and painfully." Dean disappears into the bathroom, banging the door shut behind him, leaving Sam to wonder if Dean will ever stop surprising him.

When Dean comes out again twenty minutes later, Sam's not stupid - well, not usually - and he knows better than to mention hugging again even without Dean's prior warning, though he resolves to hug back next time, however long away that may be. But if, in bed late that night, Sam rolls closer to Dean, pressing his chest to Dean's back, and slinging an arm over Dean's middle, well, they both know that Dean's the one who contorts himself into strange positions when he sleeps.


End file.
